


in too deep

by blueincandescence



Series: all's fair in love and cold war [8]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Ficlet, Smut, my usual tags:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/pseuds/blueincandescence
Summary: Gaby is deep undercover. Illya is...in too deep.Short fic in honor of turningleaf's birthday!





	in too deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Turningleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turningleaf/gifts).



BUENOS AIRES, JULY 1965

_i. mark_

The brass handle creaks under Gaby’s reflexive grip. Light from the hall cuts her suite down the middle. At other the end, a heavy velvet-lined chair has been rotated from its place at the writing desk to face bay windows. Gaby pretends her key has stuck in the lock to mask a surge of adrenaline.

The darkness to her left shifts.

Gaby’s measured intake of breath is the silence Illya implores her for, his long index finger hovering over his pursed lips. His head rests centimeters from the open door, the bright hallway, the THRUSH doyen at her back.

Since Illya has not unholstered his gun, Gaby turns to lean against the doorframe and favors the dark-haired man escorting her from the ballet with a smooth smile.

Lines crinkle from Julius von Kleist’s bright eyes to the silver at his temples, a jaunty contrast to his stiff posture and grave inflection. “Fraulein von Trulsch,” he begins, formal despite weeks of curated intimacies. “ _I have had an enchanting evening_.”

“ _The Teatro Colón is the only company on this continent with any history_ ,” Gaby replies in the bored, haughty tones expected of the von Trulsch heiress.

From behind, Illya’s cool hand skims her back down the plunging dip of her dress. Gaby, who has been an agent of UNCLE for over two years and in deep cover for three months besides, knows how to hold in a shiver.

Von Kleist steps closer. “ _I meant the company, of course_.”

Gaby offers von Kleist her knuckles for a lingering kiss. Her free hand gropes for Illya, pushes into his side to urge him away. She might as well attempt to move the Wall. He seizes her fingers. His other hand grips her side as von Kleist raises his lips to her own.

The kiss is as dry as it has been all week, but Gaby’s skin breaks out into gooseflesh for the frozen grip on her wrist, her waist. The von Trulsch heiress is ice-cold the way Gaby plays her. Has played her. Tonight a flush melts the skin at her throat, where von Kleist’s fingers twitch in surprise against her rising pulse.

Gaby breaks the kiss with a soft sound that is echoed by von Kleist. “Gabriella,” he murmurs, fingers on her chin, trying to catch her eye. She feigns embarrassment, fatigue. Any excuse to convince him to remove his hands from her person without losing her coveted spot on his guest list tomorrow night. Her left hand is numb from the wrist down by the time von Kleist has admitted an elegant defeat. Gaby closes the door and locks it tight.

One enemy down.

Illya moves to stand behind Gaby. Even turned away from him, even in darkness barely offset by light from the window, she knows the size and shape of Illya Kuryakin. He lets go of her wrist to take her waist in both hands. His touch burns her skin like ice.

One to go.

 

  
_ii. wound_

Touching Gaby has been a tactical error from the start. Illya cannot let go.

He kneads into her sides. She is lean and hard—and alive. It wasn’t so long ago he had thought her dead, caught out as a triple agent. It wasn’t so long ago, either, that she had left him for dead to establish her credentials. If his massaging hands are a little rough, well. It’s nothing Gaby Teller can’t handle.

As if to prove it, Gaby wrenches in his grip, twisting to face him. She comes up to his chest. Even so, he feels her looking down at him. “You weren’t supposed to make contact,” she hisses in that icy, imperious tone.

Illya draws his fingertips up Gaby’s spine. Up between her shoulder blades, past the nape of her neck. Until shivers melt through her.

Her palms flatten over the front of his turtleneck, smoothing down. Retaliation. Illya is suitably wary. She queries, “How long have you been following me?”

Long enough to see how tightly she has von Kleist wrapped around her crooked finger. Illya’s report will make Waverly very proud of her. UNCLE is one step closer to THRUSH high command.

Crowding Gaby against the door, Illya dips to breathe Gaby in at her crown. She hadn’t been there when Illya punched Waverly in the mouth, yelling, “Sukin syn!” until Solo dragged him from the premises. If Gaby had heard about the incident, she never mentioned it.

Through the thin material of his turtleneck, she strokes raised scar tissue: a KGB sniper bullet he took in her defense. Only to be proved wrong—she lied. She lies. Her warm fingers snake up under his shirt to find fresh scar tissue. This one a clean shot at close range. Anything to maintain her cover. Illya sucks in air between his teeth when she soothes over it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. She has said this before.

Illya has never told her it’s okay. Because it isn’t. And, in her position, he would have never done the same.

The injustice of that drives Illya to claim Gaby’s mouth. In the dark, he almost misses, smears his lips over hers until they part to guide him home. Gaby’s head thumps against the wood, and her teeth scrape his tongue.

Between breaths—“What if”—Gaby surges up on her toes to hang onto Illya’s neck— “Von Kleist left guards outside my door, hm?” The hum of her question vibrates against Illya’s lips.

Illya yanks Gaby up under her knees and shoves her full weight against the door. He rocks into the vee of her thighs and sucks her skin to make her moan. Voice harsh from disuse, from all the acid he has swallowed back, Illya replies, “Then he will know you do not belong to him,” and bears down on her mouth again.

The noise that shudders from Gaby into the back of Illya’s throat chokes him. Makes him want to shift her into a cradle, carry her far and away. He expected brash laughter. What he got was closer to a sob.

With shaken hands, Gaby tugs at Illya’s belt, his trousers. Lines herself up so Illya can plunge into her tight, slick heat. Partway in. Halfway in. Gaby spreads her knees and takes him deeper. With every stroke, Illya loses more of his composure. Grunting, sweating. He remembers when all he felt for her was reverence. When she’d slapped him enough times to know he’d never hurt her back.

Hurting Gaby is not what Illya is after, though bruises at this pace are inevitable. What he’s after are those keening sounds she makes, that moment when her hard thighs turn to jelly in his grasp. Illya feels her inner muscles tensing around him, and he thumbs her clit to send her over.

It has been too long since Gaby has allowed Illya to be her partner. But her resolve has never been strong enough to stop him being the surge of light behind her eyelids. It’s a privilege to hold this woman aloft and to feel her tensile muscles and fine bones fall slack around him.

Her head slumps back but her hips keep pistoning with his. Their staccato gasps and groans are in time with the thump of Gaby’s tailbone against the bouncing door. Illya is reminded of her warning about potential guards. About his strict orders not to make contact.

“There are easier ways,” Gaby pants, teeth and eyes gleaming, “to get us killed.”

But none half so satisfying.

Illya finishes with his knee braced for balance, with his face buried in her throat. The better to taste her, smell her, hear her pulse. “Gaby,” he chokes out and cradles her against his chest.


End file.
